“Deal,” she whispered excitedly; “why don’t you go away?  Get on Streak—­he’ll outrun any horse in the county!  Go!  Get Williams and the other boys.  Deal!” She shook him frenziedly.  “It isn’t the money they are after—­it’s you!  They’ll kill you, Deal!  And there are so many of them!  Run—­run!”

He grinned, patting her shoulder as he led her out upon the porch and forced her into a chair.

When the men had come near enough for him to distinguish their faces, and he saw that Dale was leading them, he walked to a slender porch column and leaned against it, turning to smile at Mary.

“Maison decided he’d have to talk, looks like,” he said.  “Some men just can’t help it.”

Rigid in her chair, the girl watched the riders swoop toward the ranchhouse; Sanderson, lounging against the porch column, smiled saturninely.

The riders headed directly toward the porch.  Sanderson counted them as they came to a halt within thirty feet of the edge of the porch.  There were twenty of them.

Dale, his face flushed, his eyes alight with triumph, dismounted and stepped forward, halting at the edge of the porch and sweeping his hat from his head with exaggerated courtesy.

“Delighted to see you, ma’am—­an’ your friend, Deal Sanderson.  Mr. Sanderson paid my friend Maison a visit last night, takin’ away with him ninety thousand dollars of the bank’s money.  Me an’ my men has come over to get the money—­an’ Mr. Sanderson.  The Okar court allows that it needs him.  I’ve got a warrant for him.”

Dale’s grin was huge.  He felt secure with his men behind him.

But if he expected Sanderson to be impressed he was disappointed.  The latter’s face did not change color, nor did he shift his position in the slightest manner.  And his cold, amused grin disconcerted Dale.  His voice, when he spoke, was gentle and drawling: 

“Was you thinkin’ Miss Bransford is interested in warrants, Dale?  Oh, don’t!  There’s an honest judge in Okar, an’ he ain’t helpin’ Maison’s gang.  Get back to Okar an’ tell Maison that Sanderson ain’t visitin’ Okar today.”

“You ain’t, eh!” Dale’s voice snapped with rage.  “Well, we ain’t carin’ a damn whether you do or not!  We’ve got you, right where we want you.  I’ve got a warrant, an’ you’ll come peaceable or we’ll plant you!  There ain’t only two horses in the corral—­showing that your men has gone.  An’ there ain’t anything between you an’ the coyotes!”

“Only you, Dale,” said Sanderson.  His voice was still gentle, still drawling.  But into it had come a note that made Dale’s face turn pale and caused the bodies of the men in the group to stiffen.

“Only you, Dale,” Sanderson repeated.  His right hand was at his hip, resting lightly on the butt of the six-shooter that reposed in its holster.